The Hermit
by labyrinths
Summary: Some time in the future, Jaime has become a bit of a hermit. Lady Brienne Hunt is visiting King's Landing and Jaime wonders if he might not be able to turn back time. One-shot.


**The Hermit**

**By Hedge Labyrinth**

* * *

"It's aching again. If I could turn back time, big brother, I'd make sure to never misplace my nose," Tyrion said, sipping a glass of wine.

Winter was creeping into King's Landing. The chill of it made old wounds hurt and Jaime sympathized with his brother. He was not feeling much better, himself.

"If I could turn back time, I'd keep my hand," Jaime replied.

"At least you have the spare one and it serves quite well."

But never like his old hand. Jaime still trained diligently. It was the only thing he did, besides spending his nights immersed in books. He'd never loved books but he'd learned to like them. Pariahs have few chances to socialize. Besides, he did not crave company. Books and the occasional conversation with his brother provided plentiful entertainment.

"To turn back time," Tyrion said smacking his lips. "Will you be joining us in the throne room tomorrow?"

Jaime snorted. He was never found anywhere near the throne room. Daenerys Targaryen allowed Jaime to live and kept him at court, but that was no sign of courtesy or affection: She kept him around because she did not trust him. Jaime was Tyrion's brother and he had fought for Daenerys. She owed her crown in no small measure to the Lannister brothers, but although she showered Tyrion with favours, she would never be grateful for Jaime's assistance.

No, Jaime kept himself far from the throne room, exiled to his rooms by choice and circumstances. His books were his friends. The practice yard his confidant.

"Little brother, we both know you are far more skilled at politics and the throne room," Jaime said. "I am sure our lovely Queen and her consort can greet the envoys from the Martells without me."

Even though he might be _expected_ to attend certain functions, as the brother of the Hand of the Queen, Jaime knew in practice nobody _wanted_ him to attend. Jaime was a hermit in King's Landing, as Tyrion often quipped.

"There are a few other, more interesting people who have come seeking an audience with the Queen," Tyrion said. "The Lady Hunt has journeyed from Tarth."

Brienne. The Lady Hunt. Jaime could never bring himself to call her that. She was his Wench and Brienne, no matter what custom dictated.

"What does Brienne want with the Queen?" he asked, surprised to hear she was in the city. She kept to her isle as much as he kept to his rooms.

"Her eldest son wishes to be a knight and so Brienne brings him to King's Landing to see if the boy may become a squire."

"How old is the lad?" Jaime asked, frowning.

"Twelve and tall for his age."

"By the gods, twelve years," Jaime muttered, feeling old.

It seemed only yesterday that the war had ended and Brienne had departed, back to her isle, with a husband in tow. Jaime had never understood what had possessed the young woman to marry Ser Hyle Hunt, though the groom had jokingly suggested her secret passions had been revealed when she saw him hanging by the end of a rope. A dark joke and a bad joke, but Jaime never knew Hyle to make any good japes.

Hyle Hunt had been, in Jaime's estimation, a tad too jovial and too silly to merit Brienne's attention. Not that he was a fool or a monster, but the value of silver is not the same as the value of gold.

Still, she must have seen _something_ in the man.

"How many children does she have now, hmm?" Jaime asked. "I lost count after the third."

"Five," Tyrion said helpfully. "Though I doubt more will be forthcoming, Ser Hunt being dead and buried for the past two years."

He recalled that, yes. Jaime had meant to write, to send a kind letter. But once he'd taken pen to parchment he'd found it hard to write even a sentence. In the first few years after Brienne's marriage he had tried to keep abreast of her life. They'd exchanged missives. Brienne was busy running a household, busy with her husband, heavy with child. Her letters dwindled. Without meaning for it, his letters grew sparser, too.

While Brienne had much to tell him, he had little to say. His days were the same, spent in the shadows in King's Landing. He'd never been good at writing and he was even worse at trying to describe the tedium of his existence.

She asked him to visit them and he thought about it seriously after the birth of the third son – Jaime, she'd threatened to name the boy, just to force the old Kingslayer to show his face – but he had not gone.

Jaime knew Brienne would have received him with open arms and he would have been well treated, but still he made no attempt to visit her.

"More than a decade spent with Hyle," Jaime muttered. "I thought she would have killed him within a week."  
"Aye. Who would have thought? Those two together."

"They were too different," Jaime said, pausing before a mirror and looking at his face.

His golden hair was sprinkled with many strands of silver. His beard, the same. Wrinkles dotted his face. He was far from a young man. When he'd last seen Brienne there still had been some youth and beauty and pride left in him. But now…alas, now he was old.

"Much too different," Tyrion agreed. "Will you be in the throne room tomorrow, then? Her boy has grown up hearing tales of you and I'd wager he'd like to meet a hero."

"A hero," Jaime laughed. "If Brienne has been telling the stories I doubt she's painted the picture of a hero."

"Who knows? She might. I've always meant to ask something," Tyrion said, pacing around a table, looking thoughtful. "Did you ever think to ask her _not_ to marry Ser Hunt?"

"I? Why would I ask such a thing?" Jaime asked, trying to sound casual, though he recalled a moment of vivid panic when he had almost bolted out of a room and down some stairs, almost leapt against a door and yelled…

…but he'd been a coward. He'd also had his white cloak back then. It had been stripped from his shoulders years before, but back then, right that instant, he'd still been a knight.

"I do not know."

"He was a decent fellow," Jaime muttered. "Despite his jokes and games, he seemed to like her. And he wasn't…he was never afraid. He earned his right to her hand."

"I thought as much," Tyrion said, giving his cup of wine one last sip. "Well, I suppose she'll miss seeing you, then."

Tyrion walked towards the door.

"Does the lad take after the mother or the father?" Jaime asked.

Tyrion glanced at him and smirked. "He has the mother's eyes and Hyle's smug grin."

"A winning combination."

"Aye."

Jaime touched his chin and shook his head, pausing for a moment.

"If the Lady Brienne would come to my chambers, I would be glad to chat with her. But I will not show myself at court tomorrow."

"Jaime Lannister, the hermit of King's Landing," Tyrion said mockingly. "I will tell her."

Tyrion left. Jaime went to the mirror again, looking worriedly at his reflection. He ran a hand through his hair.

Jaime recalled something Hyle Hunt had said a long time ago, about how he'd been "a suitor without flowers" and "blunt to a fault," yet still won Brienne's hand.

Well, Jaime had no flowers either. He was old, maimed and faded. But who knew…maybe a few years had given him more courage.

Time might still turn back.

THE END


End file.
